


We Could Steal Time

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Alienist (TV), The Alienist - Caleb Carr
Genre: Caretaking, Fluff, Friendship, Laszlo is Stubborn, M/M, Sharing a Bed, but so is john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 14:49:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14813454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: While John has always admired his friend’s dedication, he will forever despair of the lack of care taken over his own well-being. And if Laszlo refuses to look after himself, then the responsibility must fall to John.





	We Could Steal Time

**Author's Note:**

> **[MINOR BOOK SPOILER:]** Inspired by the bit in the book where Laszlo almost faints from exhaustion because he's been working so hard.

It’s a weary team that midnight creeps up on at Number 808 Broadway, finding them all not only fatigued physically, but also dispirited by their lack of progress.

Marcus has, in fact, already dozed off, slumped over his desk, head pillowed on his arm. Lucius is faring only slightly better, still collating the notes he and Marcus had made throughout the day, but through drooping eyelids. For her part, Sara diligently continues to read her way through the piles of reports and articles they have collected, but every few minutes she stifles a yawn, her attempts to hide it behind her hand proving rather futile.

But the person John is keeping a close eye on, the one who gives him most cause for concern, is Laszlo. The alienist would spend several minutes standing before the chalkboard, staring at the notes that are gradually beginning to cover its surface, only to suddenly begin pacing restlessly, mumbling theories to himself.

With the Institute and the investigation both demanding Kreizler’s time, there is precious little left to spend on what he considers frivolous activities. Unfortunately, these include such necessities as eating and sleeping. A discrete inquiry to Cyrus had indeed confirmed that at least two days had passed since Laszlo had last taken to his bed for any decent length of time, and John judges that it surely can’t be long before the man simply faints dead away.

While John has always admired his friend’s dedication, he will forever despair of the lack of care taken over his own well-being. And if Laszlo refuses to look after himself, then the responsibility must fall to John.

“Perhaps we ought to call it a night,” John suggests to the room at large. “Reconvene in the morning with fresh minds.”

Sara and Lucius, although both dedicated to their cause, swiftly agree, and with no small measure of gratitude. Sara begins gathering her things, while Lucius gives his brother a nudge, and, after making plans to meet again at a more reasonable hour, they are soon departing.

All the activity, however, fails to penetrate Laszlo’s preoccupied musings. Still deep in thought, he doesn’t even seem to notice John’s approach.

“Laszlo?” John places a hand on his shoulder, finally drawing his attention away from the board. Dark eyes slowly blink into focus, then narrow into a frown, questioning the disturbance. This close, the signs of exhaustion are obvious: the dark smudges beneath his eyes, the droop to his shoulders, the way he holds his bad arm more stiffly than usual against his body. “Come on. I’m seeing you home.”

“No, no,” Laszlo mutters irritably, shaking John off and turning back to his notes. “There’s too much to do. We still haven’t—”

“It can wait ’til tomorrow,” John insists. “You need to take a break.”

“It can’t _wait_!” It’s a snarl, bitten out almost angrily. “What I need is to—”

John cuts him off again, his own frustration mounting. “I’m not going to sit here and watch you run yourself into the ground!”

“I don’t recall asking you to stay. Why don’t _you_ go home and leave me in peace to—”

“Enough!” The sound of John’s palm slamming against the desk is loud in the empty room, the heavy, stunned silence that replaces it even louder. The force behind John’s outburst shocks him as much as it does Laszlo - perhaps even more so - and it’s a moment before he regains his voice.

“You’ll not be able to find the killer if you drop dead from exhaustion.” Laszlo looks about to argue so John forges on. “Just this once you are going to listen to me, goddammit!”

What John doesn’t say is just how much he fears losing Laszlo to his dedication, how he couldn’t bear to see him come to harm. Instead he stares into those tired eyes, daring Laszlo to defy him.

He will _not_ be pushed away, not this time.

Perhaps Laszlo can see something of these thoughts in John’s expression, or perhaps he is just too tired to fight for, finally, he heaves a deep sigh of surrender.

“Very well.”

Swiftly taking advantage of this capitulation, John fetches their coats and ushers Laszlo out before something else can catch his attention, and with blessed little objection gets him into his calash. As Cyrus, who had, as ever, been faithfully awaiting them, sets them off in the direction of Seventeenth Street, John tucks the blanket over their legs to ward off the chilly night air.

“Don’t fuss so, John.”

There’s no real heat behind the protest so John blithely ignores him, shuffling a little closer on the seat so they’re pressed side-to-side and sharing their warmth. Laszlo makes no further complaint but lapses back into silence, and John suspects his mind has returned to puzzling over the enigma that is their killer. He doesn’t even seem to notice when Cyrus draws the rig to a halt at Kreizler’s house and John has to give him a prod.

Inside, John directs Laszlo to a chair and the way he sinks heavily into its cushion is telling. God forbid Laszlo should acknowledge his own exhaustion, however, and he waves John away and sets about the awkward task of removing his boots. His preference for that buttoned style will forever baffle John, but he knows better than to offer assistance and risk stoking Laszlo’s anger again, so he leaves him to it.

Without John even having to ask, Cyrus prepares them a light supper. John thanks the man and insists he is dismissed and may retire for the night. Unlike Laszlo, Cyrus doesn’t hesitate at the chance to lay his head down for a few hours.

Presented with the plate of food, Laszlo seems about to refuse, but a look from John has him accepting it with only a token grumble. John grins happily and joins him, tucking into his own portion with gusto and watching Laszlo pick at his out of the corner of his eye.

He doesn’t quite finish it all, probably out of sheer bloody-minded stubbornness, but at least he has a little sustenance inside him now. It’s a start.

John tidies away their plates, and when he returns it’s to find Laszlo lost in thought once again. He knows that, left to his own devices, Laszlo will eventually nod off right where he is in the chair for a half hour of uncomfortable sleep and consider that an acceptable rest.

Not tonight.

“I’d say it’s about time we got you to bed.” It’s not so much a suggestion as an instruction, bold and made more assertive by the concern that’s not yet quelled. 

Laszlo stirs from his reverie to scowl up at him. “I am perfectly capable of taking myself to bed.”

John raises an eyebrow at that. He could easily list all the evidence to the contrary, but it doesn’t really need to be said. He merely extends a hand and waits, knowing all too well how stubborn Laszlo can be but refusing to back down this time.

Unable to see any way of ridding himself of John’s ministrations, and too tired to muster up the harsh words he would usually employ to drive him away, Laszlo yields, but defiantly ignores the outstretched hand.

John doesn’t mind the snub. Laszlo can be as mulish as he likes, just so long as he gets into the damn bed.

To ensure that happens, John brazenly follows Kreizler into his bedroom, seeking out a nightshirt and thrusting it pointedly at Laszlo.

Before Laszlo can splutter whatever indignant riposte is building behind those blazing eyes, John takes himself off into the bathroom. It’s predominantly an excuse to grant Laszlo the privacy to change out of his day clothes, but it’s also a chance to freshen up. The places they’d been and the things they’d seen…it left a man feeling decidedly soiled, and he can only imagine it must be all the more acute for Kreizler, immersed as he is in unraveling the workings of this maniac’s mind.

Shedding the outer layers of his clothing and splashing some water on his face is a little help, and he briefly considers the merits of going in search of a drink. But that particular need is tonight outweighed by his concern for his friend. The craving swiftly ebbs and he delays no longer.

The sight that greets him upon returning to the bedroom, however, leaves him despairing. But it’s an almost fond sort of exasperation, because Laszlo will always be hopelessly incorrigible, and his dedication to his work is as admirable as it is infuriating.

He has donned the nightshirt, granted, but he’s sat on the edge of the bed leafing through a hefty book in the glow of a single lamp. John forces the smile from his face, adopting instead an appropriately stern glower.

“Christ, man, do you never stop?” He pulls the book free from Laszlo’s hand and deposits it well out of reach.

Laszlo’s glare isn't as effective as usual, diminished somewhat by the tightness around his eyes that betrays his exhaustion. The passion is still present in his voice, however, when he insists, “We will only see results if we put in the work necessary to fully understand what motivates this man, for only then will we stand any chance of catching him.”

John doesn’t need to be told – he’s all too vividly aware of what’s at stake. “I know,” he says softly, drawing back the covers of the bed. “But we cannot do so unless our own minds are clear and rested.

Laszlo weighs this argument for a moment, and maybe he can finally see the sense of John’s reasoning, or maybe he just thinks that if he stops resisting John will leave him be. Either way, he gets into the bed and it’s not so much a victory as a relief.

“Just a few hours,” comes the compromise, and Laszlo turns onto his side, his back to John in obvious dismissal. But John has made it this far, and he won’t be deterred now.

Laszlo gives a start as John slips under the bedsheets, twisting his neck to look over his shoulder in astonishment.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“Making sure you stay put.” John makes himself comfortable, tucking up behind Laszlo.

“I hardly think it is necessary for you to climb into bed with me.”

“Yeah, well.” John slips an arm around Laszlo’s waist, feels him tense a little at the contact before finally submitting, accepting the embrace albeit with grudging sufferance. “Sometimes you think too goddamn much, Laszlo.”

There’s a soft scoff from Laszlo, and John waits for the retort, the _and you too little_ he is certain is on the tip of Laszlo’s tongue. It doesn’t come. Instead, Laszlo’s hand finds John’s, locking him in place.

“Perhaps.”

It’s a sleepy mumble, but it’s acknowledgment and acceptance, and it’s Laszlo trusting John to look after his well-being when he’s too stubborn to do so himself.

It’s a task John will willingly undertake, for as intractable as Laszlo can often be, he’s a good man, and rather than question this newfound sense of responsibility – of _protectiveness_ – he merely holds Laszlo a little tighter and listens as his breathing evens out into the gentle rhythm of sleep.

And resolves to remain right there at his side.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from David Bowie's '"Heroes"'


End file.
